I Did The KL Towerthon In 38 Minutes

I received a certificate of achievement in the mail today. It congratulated me for completing the KL Towerthon last month. Apparently, I ranked 1,371 (maybe there were 1,372 runners) and sprinted up 2,000+ steps in 38 minutes 19 seconds.

Sounds fab, except that I didn’t turn up for the Towerthon. I registered though, and spent the entire time between registration and collection of race pack wondering what possessed me to sign up – one of those Iosodunnowai moments. I viewed pictures and read some personal accounts of past races, both of which made me even more reluctant to go through with the race. The pics showed people running up a dingy, cramped stairwell while the accounts relayed gory tales of people throwing up mid-way …

… didn’t exactly rock my boat. Which was why I signed up and then, proceeded to not show up for the race.

And now, I have a certificate of achievement for doing something I obviously did not do. Not unlike the KL Marathon where you don’t actually have to run or finish anything to get the medal; all you really need is enough elbow strength to shove your way to the counter and grab a medal from the frazzled attendants.

So, just like all my other posts, the moral of the story is: there is no moral of the story. I’m just waiting to see what will be in the mail tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be a certificate for completing a 42K. Now that, I won’t mind terribly.

Look Ma, I’m A Philosopher!

I may not look particularly deep but I do have an interest in philosophy. It’s a manifestation of one my deep-seated needs to appear profound and intelligent. The other deep-seated desires include wanting to be taller, to run a series of 42Ks and to be mistaken for somebody famous … but I digress. The other day, I went crazy in the bookstore (again) and bought a whole bunch of books, a number of which are rather philosophical. I figure this is a great start to my life as a philosopher. While I harbour no desire to throw on a toga, experience a gory public execution or be immortalised in paintings (well, maybe just that last one), I do want to be a philosopher, or at the very least, be somewhat philosophical.

So, this is my 8-Step Philosopher Game Plan:

1. Lunch on a steady biblio-diet of philosophy books. I confess the closest I’ve ever been to an actual philosophy textbook is my dog-eared copy of Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder, which I’d misplaced years ago, so I don’t have any real – for lack of a better word – training in this area. I do have more than three books of this category on my shelf though, so that’s not too shabby a start. Now, the only thing is to actually read them and in the cases of the ones I have read, to re-read them.

2. Be able to cite at least three philosophers. The mother of them all would be Socrates who questioned everyone so relentlessly that they thought he was the spawn of Satan and sentenced him to death by poison; there’s Sartre who believes that “Hell is other people” and that all human relationships are fundamentally ones of “conflict”; and agent provocateur Nietzsche who’s most remembered for his declaration that “God is dead”.

3. Be able to pronounce (and spell!) impossible philosopher names. From Descartes (DAY-kart) to Proust (PROOST), Goethe (GU[R]-tuh) to Nietzsche (NEE-chuh), Sartre (SAR-truh) to Dostoevsky (dahs-tuh-YEF-skee), this is very important especially if you’re a shameless wannabe like I am. The last thing you want to do is to quote Goethe and call him ‘Goth’ … unless the person with whom you’re talking doesn’t know any better, in which case you should just quote Woody Allen (WUU-dee A-luhn): “I’m not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

4. Adopt a philosophical principle as my life motto. For now, it’s Occam’s Razor aka the Law of Succinctness. I love it because – as people who know me can attest – I am a master at complex-icating things needlessly. While I think it’s amusing to drive myself (and other people) crazy at times, I cannot deny that there is beauty and truth in simplicity. Well, either this or I just like saying “Occam”. Occam, Occam, Occam.

5. Know a philosophical quotation or two. One of my all-time personal favourites is by Goethe: “We can always redeem the man who aspires and strives.” There’s just something so uplifting, comforting and hopeful about it; that all man’s transgressions can be forgiven as long as he’s constantly on a quest to better himself. I also particularly like: “Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily” by William of Ockham (see point four).

6. Question everything. The beginning of true wisdom is the acknowledgement that you know nothing. The more you know, the more you know you don’t know. There’s a lot of arrogance in claiming that you’ve figured out the Answers to Life just because a certain Book tells you so. You never know anything for sure. What is morality? What is courage? What is love? What is betrayal? What is mercy? The hunger to find out the answers to those questions is “to be an informed participant in the great conversation of mankind.” I want in on that conversation.

7. Converse with people more curious/intelligent/learned than you are. Talk to people who make you think. Sure, I enjoy chit-chat about trivialities just as much as the next person (eg. the best char siew pau, the latest nail polish shade, how to prevent split ends, why Bee Lian’s kid looks more like her gardener than her husband, etc), but these will never satisfy your Inner Egghead like a really good conversation can.

8. Understand the point of it all. And the point is, there is no real point. Being philosophical isn’t about being knowledgeable (though that can’t hurt); it’s a way of thinking. It’s a ferocious curiosity, a passion for knowledge, a reluctance to settle for an answer just because it’s conventional wisdom. It’s yearning to discover truths while understanding that, despite your endless questioning, you will never truly, truly know … because in the end, nobody does – not even those who claim so readily that they do.

My Moleskine Can Save Lives

My resolution to resuscitate my inner artist has not worked out the way I’d planned. I’m still attacking my keyboard more than I am wielding my pencil, which means I’m writing more than I’m drawing, which means I’ve failed in my goal to create a balance between the two.

Since my last post when I’d unabashedly declared my desire to reconnect with my authentic self, I had gone on one of my maniacal shopping sprees and purchased several glorious Moleskine sketchbooks and a bunch of fancy pencils, convinced that all I really needed to shock my out-of-commission fingers back into action were spanking new tools. After dreamily caressing my new Moleskine for a full hour, I began to fantasise about the intimacy I’d soon share with it … the wondrous drawings I’d soon be pouring into its smooth, buttery pages … every raw pencil stroke throbbing with intensity and intention, every line pulsating with my blood and sweat, every smudge quivering under the burden of my tortured soul. My Moleskine sketchbook will be a living, breathing testament to the innermost secret passages of my very being. It will infuse wisdom into every person who even so much as glances at it. It will speak to people – audibly. It will rejuvenate long-lost passion, inject a zeal for life, clear the cloudiness of dreams, cure depression, bring world peace and put an end to poverty. It will live long after I have gone.

Yes, that’s what my Moleskine sketchbook, filled with my drawings, was supposed to do.

The reality of it, unfortunately, is somewhat different. To date, it is a 14-page collection (and I use the word ‘collection’ here very loosely) of incomplete sketches: an orgy of random noses, eyes and lips; an irate-looking old Afghan woman; an effeminate, vapid-faced male Chinese opera singer; and a pitiful, doe-eyed African boy.

So yeah, my Moleskine isn’t speaking to me yet (or anybody, for that matter). And last I checked, countries are still at war, poverty is still rife and we still have no way of deciphering the crazy stuff we dream at night.

Oh well. Back to the drawing board.

There’s A Worm In My Stomach & His Name Is Harry

Why? Because he has hair all over his slimy body. Oh you mean why do I have a worm in my stomach? I have no idea. I just know that Harry quietly took residence last December and started full-on attack sometime in February. It’s been two months and he’s not letting up. He’s ferociously sucking every last calorie, inhaling every last trace of nutrient in my body … leaving me for dead.

While boasting the BMI similar to that of a pre-pubescent girl is the hungered-after beauty norm today, the Starving Bug-eyed Refugee Look has never been something I ever aspired to – at least not intentionally. What’s so sexy about gaunt, hollow cheeks? Sunken eyeballs? Protruding collarbone and painfully visible ribs? Pelvic bones sharp enough to poke somebody’s eye out? Bony, wrinkled fingers?

The aesthetic aspect of it is one thing, the shopping aspect of it is another. Having gone down one dress size in a couple of months has thrown my wardrobe into a bit of a tailspin. Clothes I’d purchased a mere month ago no longer fit me properly, which means I have to now go buy more stuff that will fit me. God, losing weight is tough on the purse strings.

To make matters worse, thanks to Harry’s relentless attacks, not only is the poundage melting off no matter what I eat, there are other miserable side-effects as well. My hair is drier and has lost its sheen, giving rise to what I count among the greatest banes of my existence: Bad Hair Days. My nails are weaker. Just the other day, my beautifully pedicured toenail broke off. That tiny nail cost me six bucks to have done. Damn, I wonder what else is going to fall off.

I don’t know what Harry wants with me and I don’t know if he’s ever going to stop. What I do know is that I’m going to have a huge plate of thick, gooey, cream-based pasta for lunch tomorrow and hope he’s not going to suck all that up too. He can’t. I’m running on empty as it is.

Save Your Lousy Marriage: Go Holiday!

Apparently, “all Malaysians” in crappy marriages can now sign up for a second honeymoon at Pulau Perhentian to rekindle the flames, or at least diminish the urge to pummel each other with shovels. And it’s all sponsored by the government at RM1,500 per warring couple.

This Second Honeymoon comes with a programme for you and your husband. There are long, romantic walks along the beach; building sand castles together (WTF); marriage counseling; and simply being left alone, I presume so they can hopefully, bonk each other’s brains out.

According to committee chairman Ashaari Idris, “We have the right accommodation to help couples become intimate again.” I wonder what that means – probably that you’ll get to stay in a room with a bed as opposed to say, under a coconut tree, which might make it somewhat difficult to engage in ‘intimate’ activities.

So far, four couples who were on the brink of divorce have experienced this Second Honeymoon and are now as happy as a bunch of clams. Their marriages have been saved. They love each other again. They want to make more babies. They want to … sign up for another package. Right. So, there’s a Third Honeymoon package right? And a Fourth Honeymoon package and a Fifth and a Sixth … because we all know marriage requires hard work. And now that the government has taken upon itself to rescue all these silly couples who probably shouldn’t have been allowed to live past puberty, let alone get married, the onus is on the government to keep these couples’ love jugs jiggling. After all, what kind of success story can our dear leaders have if the couples follow up their free honeymoon several years later with a divorce?

This might come as a surprise to some of you but I am a tax payer. Yes, I have a job (lord have mercy). So, forgive me if I’m less than thrilled at the prospect of paying for a bunch of people to go on some free honeymoon to build sand castles and have sex. Honey, if you and your spouse need a honeymoon handout from the Malaysian government, you’ve got bigger problems than your rocky marital union. My advice? Get a job and pay for your own honeymoon. And if you can’t afford to do so, I strongly recommend divorce.

All Blocked Up & Nothing To Write

I don’t like being stuck. In my head, that is, not in a cave or something like I was two years ago. I have Writer’s Block – it’s a condition I’ve been wrestling with since early this month. It began the moment I uploaded my last post. My mind just went blank. And it’s been blank until now. I swear I can hear crickets.

Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t bother me but for some reason, I’m getting a little antsy about it this time. For the sake of keeping my blog alive and not disappointing those of you who look forward to having something suitably shallow to read on a weekly basis, I shall now expend Herculean effort to eke out this post. The story today is – what else – how to fight Writer’s Block:

1. UNDERSTAND: As in understand why I’m suffering from Writer’s Block in the first place. I can think of several reasons. First up, I haven’t read anything interesting lately. I have several books I bought months ago, still wrapped up in shiny plastic, still virgins untainted by my fingers. Second, I’ve been too preoccupied with work and everyone knows that’s a real inspiration killer unless your blog centres around work-bitching (mine obviously doesn’t). Third, I’ve been suffering from bad hair days this past week. I don’t know about you but a bad hair day makes me not want to live, let alone write.

2. DISTRACT: As in distract myself from the norm, get out of my funk and do something totally different like … take up Thai boxing, plant asparagus or rear an exotic animal. Doing something new never fails to kick-start the creative OJ – at least that’s what these bespectacled writer-type characters tell me.

3. READ / WATCH / LISTEN: As in read / watch / listen to stuff. Any stuff. This does not include porn, btw.

4. MOVE: As in get in a bout of exercise to get the blood pumping or simply move yourself physically from the living room to the … kitchen. The change of scenery may do wonders.

5. DRINK: Writers and coffee go together like bread and butter, eyelash and mascara, teeth and gums. Research shows that caffeine can jolt the brain to life. It helps you focus and strengthens your short-term memory. If that fails, don’t fret. You will still look pretty hot lounging around in Starbucks with your laptop and an intense, frustrated expression on your face. It’s a very sexy look.

6. TALK: Call up the most interesting person you know and talk to him (or her). Tell this person about your predicament and how you need a dash of inspiration and how he’d better give it to you or else. You’d be surprised – he might just come up with some gems that’ll get you cracking again.

7. SHOP: Not only is the mall a great place for people-watching (an activity that might just trigger off some ideas), it’s also a great place for blowing off lots of money you don’t have. This will inspire you to get your butt back home and churn out something to earn back all that money you’d just spent.

8. JUST TYPE: lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum lorem ipsum. Damn you lorem ipsum.

8 Reasons Texting Is My Life

I am a huge fan of texting. I love, love, love it. I don’t know how I ever lived without it. I don’t know how people ever communicated without it. Oh wait, I think I vaguely remember. They participated in this archaic activity called Talking. I’m not really sure what that is but I’m sure I’ve done it on several occasions.

Now that I have declared my rapturous love for texting, let me explain why:

1) You don’t have to talk to people. This is a bonus if you don’t like many people or just really hate people in general. I’m no misanthrope but I do greatly enjoy a good text conversation. You can’t say very much, so it’s usually short (unless you have one of those friends who thinks texting is an extreme sport and sends 5-page texts) and straight to the point. None of that whiffle-waffle, which is quite nice.

2) I love to write, and texting is a form of writing. Sort of. I have this fetish: I love seeing letters appear one by one until they form a word; and seeing words appear one by one until they form a sentence. They look beautiful. There’s just something about filling a blank space that thrills me. I don’t know why. I just know that some day I’m going to need therapy for this.

3) It’s a whole lot easier to lie. Oh come on, stop raising your eyebrows and wagging your finger at me. You’re not going to sit there and claim an unstained moral track record, that you have never ever told an itty bitty lie by text? You haven’t? You’re lying right now just by saying that!!! I, for one, am not particularly self-righteous, so I’ll come right out and say it: yes, I’ve done the deed by text. If you haven’t, go do it. Lying is good for the soul.

4) It’s in black and white. You have a record of every ‘conversation’ so in the event of a dispute, you can always dig the text back up and rub it in his/her face. Of course, the situation isn’t quite so plum if reversed, in which case, this pro would very quickly sour into a somewhat unpleasant con. So the moral of the story is: Before rubbing things in people’s faces, make sure that – with the same bit of text evidence – they can’t do the same.

5) You have time to think. Just like emails (another form of communication I cannot live without), with texting, you have time to think. And think. And think some more before responding. It’s great so you don’t wind up saying something stupid that you’ll regret. You can also think up great answers that will make you appear a lot more intelligent than you really are.

6) You can blame it on Maxis. We all love our scapegoats, don’t we? Two oft-accused goats are: Maxis and our office email servers. When you receive a text from somebody you don’t like, you can ignore it. And if you’re asked why you didn’t reply, you can always blame it on Maxis, “That blardey Maxis la, always got problem!!” and then, pull a really angry face. This works every time simply because nobody can disprove it.

7) There’s room for humour. I think that texting is a great channel to express ourselves. That’s what emoticons and exclamation points are for 8) !!!!!!%#$@%$$@#*!!!!!!!! 8) !!!!!%#$@%$$@#*!!!!!! 8) !!!!!%#$@%$$@#*!!!!!! The ability to type something witty and expressive in a few short words is rare and says a lot about your creativity.

8 ) Boosts intelligence, or more specifically, our ability to decipher cryptic messages by filling in the missing letters such as, “I wd nvr do tat 2u!” or “Still in de off, cnt leave nw.” Reading and typing cryptic texts help us develop this skill, which will keep our brains sharp and prevent us from becoming senile when we get old.

I am a huge fan of texting. I love, love, love it. I don’t know how I ever lived without it. I don’t know how people ever communicated without it. Oh wait, I think I vaguely remember. They participated in this archaic activity called Talking. I’m not really sure what that is but I’m sure I’ve done it on several occasions. Now that I have declared my rapturous love for texting, let me explain why:

1) You don’t have to talk to people. This is a bonus if you don’t like many people or just really hate people in general. I’m no misanthrope but I do greatly enjoy a good text conversation. You can’t say very much, so it’s usually short (unless you have one of those friends who think texting is an extreme sport and sends 5-page texts) and straight to the point. None of that whiffling-waffling, which is quite nice.

2) I love to write, and texting is a form of writing. Sort of. I have this fetish: I love seeing letters appear one by one until they form a word; and seeing words appear one by one until they form a sentence. They look beautiful. There’s just something about filling a blank space that thrills me. I don’t know why. I just know that some day I’m going to need therapy for this.

3) It’s a whole lot easier to lie. Oh come on, stop raising your eyebrows and wagging your finger at me. You’re not going to sit there and claim an unstained moral track record, that you have never ever told an itty bitty lie by text? You haven’t? You’re lying right now just by saying that!!! I, for one, am not particularly self-righteous, so I’ll come right out and say it: yes, I’ve done the deed by text. If you haven’t, go do it. Lying is good for the soul.

4) It’s in black and white. You have a record of every ‘conversation’ so in the event of a dispute, you can always dig the text back up and rub it in his/her face. Of course, the situation isn’t quite so plum if reversed, in which case, this pro would very quickly turn into a very unpleasant con. So the moral of the story is: Before rubbing things in people’s faces, make sure – with the same bit of text evidence – they can’t do the same.

5) You have time to think. Just like emails (another form of communication I cannot live without), with texting, you have time to think. And think. And think some more before responding. It’s great so you don’t wind up saying something stupid that you’ll regret. You can also think up great answers that will make you appear a lot more intelligent than you really are.

6) You can blame it on Maxis. We all love our scapegoats, don’t we? Two oft-accused goats are: Maxis and our office email servers. When you receive a text from somebody you don’t like, you can ignore it. And if you’re asked why you didn’t reply, you can always blame it on Maxis, “That blardey Maxis la, always got problem!!” and then, pull a really angry face. This works every time simply because nobody can disprove it.

7) There’s room for humour. I think that texting is a great channel to express ourselves. That’s what emoticons and exclamation points are for: J L !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The ability to type something witty and expressive in a few short words is rare and says a lot about your creativity.

8) Boosts intelligence, or more specifically, our ability to decipher cryptic messages by filling in the missing letters such as, “I wd nvr do tat 2u!” or “Still in de off, cnt leave nw.” Reading and typing cryptic texts help us develop this skill, which will keep our brains sharp and prevent us from getting Alzheimer’s when we get old.